Have A Little Dwarf or a Silmarillion Parody
by Lairenuriel
Summary: Halloween Twisted Tale - Mordor, S.A. 3434 - Thranduil Oropherion needs armor to preserve what's left of his father's army - where DID it come from? And why ARE the Haunted Marshes haunted? Thranduil, an OC from the author's cannon-based extrapolations, a bit of Galion. Many famous Elves mentioned, but not in a positive light. NO ACTUAL Cannibalism!


October 31, 2014

Happy Halloween, Gentle Readers!

Here is a small holiday offering for which I KNOW I should be slapped. And I'm probably the only one who's going to find it funny, but… well, have charity toward the world, my pets! O, and no beta-reader, so any mistakes are All mine.

(And to anyone following my other story - forgive the delay! The Job has been impossibly hectic! And Glorfindel and Celeborn have been arguing for weeks about who gets to arrive at the Halls first – Celeborn wants to get drunk and dance without witnesses reporting back to his extremely "intense" wife. Glorfindel just wants to get drunk and pat the Mouse's arse again, which almost lost him a hand in Mordor long ago, but he's Game.)

And – feedback is welcome! Really.

Vocab. –

Huitho – Fuck

Huithenni – " Fuck me!"

Huithion – Fucking, adverb.

Edain – Human.

Edhel – Elves

Characters – Thranduil, Prince of Eryn Galen. Galion – his Butler in later life. OC's – Thranduil's semi-tame psychotics – Ai'mithe (Mouse) Red Maple ( A red-head.) – Thranduil's sister-in-law in later life. Maeneg Hawthorne – notorious Sindarin Lore Master, infamously known for his battlefield autopsies and flinging a Mouse from a catapult basket with an elf-fire incendiary in her lap ( But that's another story.)

With humble thanks to the Fanwriter who invented the word " Huitho," – my version of the Mirkwood Edhel adore you to pieces! And would serve you with a rich, red Dowinion and some fava beans ; ) !

Standard Disclaimer – Owning nothing - I'm just playing. No profit, nor material gain, just love. Apologies to Prof. Tolkien and to Mr. Sondheim! Now –

" Have A Little Dwarf!" Or A Silmarillion Parody.

Mordor: S.A. 3434 – It gets cold at night. Please join Thranduil Oropherion and Ai'mithe Red Maple (OC) as they sit together by a low, glowing fire just outside the edge of the Eryn Galen Camp. They are freshly provisioned with Lembas, water and arrows for some thirty thousand Tawarwaith (Silvan) soldiers, most of whom are now dead. What they don't have is – armor. So, where DID they get it and why ARE the Haunted Marshes haunted?

A couple of small, skinned rats have just come off a make-shift spit. As Ai'mithe gingerly pushes them onto a rock to cool, dark shadows emerge flashing cold metal. The Prince finds an arm wrapped around his throat from behind. Three mortal men against two elves makes a short fight. Ai'mithe skewers one through the eye with the fire blackened spit and leaves him twitching on the hard dirt. The cooked rats scatter as Thranduil rises, dragging his assailant up several feet. He snaps forward and flips one man directly atop the other with a satisfying thud. The sound of bone snapping is clearly audible. Ai'mithe laughs, scoops up a fist size rock and brains the Man on top.

" What the fuck!" Thranduil sits back down. " This siege has barely started!"

( Have the music to Sondheim's "Have A Little Priest." From Sweeney Todd, the movie adaption ready, now, please. Then read the first paragraph. watch?v=OTOHl9nD6B0 )

" What the fuck, indeed, now what are we going to do about them?" Ai'mithe wondered.

" Later on in full dark, I'll take them to some secret place and bury them."

"Oh, very well, m'Lord, you could do that," She says as she studies the corpse sprawled before her. It still twitches but the pulses of dark blood had diminished to a sluggish rhythm. She drops to her haunches and studies the figure.

One of Isildur's men, she discovers after rifling through his armor and cloak. She sighs heavily, running her fingers over the cold iron covering his chest.

" Buffed down, blank, would his kin know it? Come poking 'round looking for it?" Her stray thought flutters, sinking through the deepening night. She sighs again...

(And play music ….here we go…)

Ai'mithe: " Seems a downright shame."

Thranduil: " Shame?"

Ai'mithe: "Such good armor, gone to waste

On this mortal's fair, plump frame…

That Isuldur's thief has…

Had…?

Has….

His armor, can it be traced?" She turns slowly, staring at him.

Our soldiers need a lift…

Debts to be erased…

Think of it as thrift, as a gift…

Let your thoughts drift…

To such good armor, gone to waste…

I mean, with the price of iron

What it is. When you get it.

IF you get it…. "

Thranduil: " Oh….desecration."

She rolls her eyes at him and mock smacks herself in the forehead with the palm of her hand.

Ai'mithe: " M'lord, you got it!" He flashes his bowfinger in her face.

Ai'mithe: " 'Ow, for instance that dwarf King, Durin, in his smelt shop –

Business never better: elf and man in want of iron for his Host.

Back-ordered 'til Dagor Dagorarth, on "Rush" for those who'll pay the most…

Just the iron, we're not asking anyone to take a taste!

(Sung face-to- face, in passionate, building whispers:)

"Lady Ai'mithe, what a charming notion!"

"Well, does seem a waste!"

"Sacrilege, yet practical!

And inappropriate - as always. Such an idea!

My Lady Mouse, how I've lived

Long ages without out you, I'll never know….!

How delectable, fiscally undetectable!"

Consider it –"

Ai'mithe: " So many noble lives are wasting,

For want of iron and meat

Aren't they?

A.. Vict'ry… Feast!

Thranduil: " How choice!

How rare!

What! You hear the sound of Arda Marred out there?"

Ai'mithe: " What, my Lord?

What, my Lord?

What is that sound?"

Thanduil: " Those crunching noises pervading the air? ( Org. Line. It fits. Why change it?)

Ai'mithe: " Yes, m'lord, yes, m'lord…

Let's turn things around…."

Thranduil: " It's Man devouring Man, my dear,

Both: " And who are we to deny what we hear?"

Thanduil: "These are desperate times,

My Lady Mouse, and desperate measures are required."

Ai'mithe reaches out without looking and scoops up one of the cooked rats, scattered on the ground when Isuldur's men attacked them. She rubs it along her legging to get the dirt off before she offers it Thranduil in both palms with great ceremony.

" Here, my Lord Prince, hot off the spit.."

Thranduil: "What is that?"

Ai'mithe: " Nold'r Priest, from North East,"

Thranduil: " Is he really good?"

Ai'mithe: "Sir, he's too good, at least.

And again, they're known to avoid sinning flesh,

So he's pretty fresh.

Tharnduil: "Awful deal of fat."

Ai'mithe: " Only where he sat,"

Thranduil: " Haven't you got Orc, or something like that?"

Ai'mithe: " Nay, y'see, Lord, the trouble with Goblin is

'Ow do you know it's deceased? Try the priest.

((Thranduil: "Sagacious.

Not as showy as Glorfindel, perhaps

But then again,

Not as bland as Elrond, either."

Ai'mithe: "And quite good for trade, too.

He incites a taste for more…

Trouble is,

We can only bake'em on Holy Days!"))*

* These verses are from the stage production so they don't fit the movie soundtrack. But since they're written, I'm not leaving them out.)

Ai'mithe: "Now… Dwarf is rather nice.

Thranduil: "Always at top price,"

Ai'mithe: "Order something else, though, to follow,

Since no one need swallow him twice!"

She pokes her tongue in her cheek, makes a sour face, and spits hard onto the black dirt. Thranduil stares at her for a moment, then slides off his rock with a thump. For a moment he wretches, but she points at him, laughing, in the Arda-wide, 'I got ya!' He growls under his breath at her, but takes the cooked rat from her hand. Looks at it sourly:

Thranduil: " Anything that's lean?"

Ai'mithe: " Well, then if your Numenorean loyal,

You might enjoy Gondor marine.

Anyway, he's clean.

Though, of course, he tastes of where ever he's been!"

She studies the Mortal and then begins to work at the buckles and leather straps that hold breastplate to backplate. She curses, " Huith'enni!" because she can't budge them. Thranduil sits back against his rock and watches her struggle.

Thranduil: " Is that Elendil's squire, on the fire?"

Ai'mithe: " O Good Eru, m' Lord, look closer!

' See, 'tis Celeborn's grocer!"

Thranduil: "Looks thicker. Like Amroth, bootlicker…

Ai'mithe: " No, must be Celeborn's grocer, he's green!"

Ai'mithe sits back on her heels, grabs the edges of the breast plate in both hands and gives the corpse a violent shaking. " Come off, damn you!"

Thranduill: " The history of The World, my love…"

He rises and steps over her. Slipping one foot under the back plate, he reaches down and yanks the breastplate loose with a loud, popping noise. One of the buckles clangs against rock and bounces away. " O, you great tall bastard!" She curses him. He laughs and points at her now.

Ai'mithe: " Spare digging deep graves –

Do so many kin favors…"

Thranduil: "Is those perceived Low serving fools up Above!"

As she rolls Isildur's soldier out of his armor, Thranduil moves to the second and, with another loud percussive pop, snaps his leather straps and sends his buckles flying. " Ai, Highness, we'll need those." She scolds. He shrugs, " Easier to find under what passes for daylight here." He adds as he moves to the third, " Rather like pulling apart a turtle… don't you think, Mouse?"

Ai'mithe: " What paths this paves!

And I could provide such robust flavors!"

Thranduil: " How gratifying for once to know,"

Both: " That those Above will serve those down Below!"

They pile the stolen armor and roll the bodies to the very edge of their campfire circle.

((Thranduil: "The history of all Arda, my mouse,"

Ai'mithe: "O, m'lord, ohhh, my Lord,

What does it tell?"

Thranduil picks up his discarded rat, brushes it off, and settles back onto his rock. He rips a strip off and gives her a feral grin as he bites the little morsel sharply into two.

Thranduil: " Is that he who eats, gets eaten as well!"

Ai'mithe: " And, m'lord, too, my Lord

As you know very well,

Most fortunately, it is Silmaril clear

That even a Maia goes down well with beer!))*

Thranduil: " What is that?"

Ai'mithe: (("Still hot, finest in the shop:

May I present you with Hobbit's pie peppered with

Actual Hobbit on top!

Alas, there were no Hobbits at this time. ))

"Still hot, finest in the shop:

May I present you with Halfling pie peppered with

Actual Halfling on top!

('Cause I' stubborn.)

" And I've just begun!

Here's the Lord Isuldur, so oily,

He's served with a doily,"

Thranduil: " That One! Put him under thumb,

For you never know when he's going to run!"

Ai'mithe: " Try Cirdan, Sire,

From the fryer."

Thranduil: " No, the old sailor is really,

Too course and too mealy!"

Ai'mithe: "Gil-galad, actor; he's compacter,"

Thranduil: "Ahh, but always arrives overdone!"

" I'll come again,

When you have Mairon on the menu."

((Ai'mithe: " Wait, true, we don't have him yet,

But with time and cold iron, he'll plate up even better!

Thranduil: How's that?

Ai'mithe: " Tomorrow's Special!))*

Thranduil: " Have charity towards the world, my pet!"

Ai'mithe: " Yes, yes, I shall, my Lord!"

Thranduil: "As we glean what we can't otherwise get…"

Ai'mithe: " From High-born and low, my Lord!"

Together:

" We'll not discriminate Great from Small

No, we'll use anyone,

Meaning anyone, and by that we mean EVERYONE

To Serve us well –"

Ai'mithe pulls her spit from the Man's eye, turns and points its dripping end at the vulnerable chest, " Let me cook him. Then you won't have to dig a hole. 'Tisn't cannibalism!"

" If we run out of Lembas, we'll discuss this again." Thranduil gathers the armor, turns to see Galion staring transfixed in horror just outside the firelight. Several other Officers, the remainder of Oropher's Command, hover behind in the same blank shock. Thranduil strides to Galion, pauses to draw out one of the breastplates and slap it to Galion's chest. A dark cloud swirls around the Silvan soldier for a moment, making his brown braids flutter. Galion blanches. "Cut yourself new straps." Thranduil commands and heads back to Oropher's tent, which is now his own. Over his shoulder he adds, "It's just a Man-ghost, grow some walnuts!"

Out in the darkness of the camp, Maeneg Hawthorne's deep voice could be heard, " In Verity? All right then! Everyone – we're going to go rob the dead - Huzzah!"

" Huzzah." Ai'mithe mutters, poking the corpse one last time. Its shade manifested, glowering at her with dark hollow eyes. " O, piss off!" She blew in its face and it sank, snarling silently, into the black dirt of Mordor. " We didn't try to kill you over two roasted rats - huthion Edain!"

Happy Halloween, Gentle Readers!


End file.
